


Fury and Feathers

by Turcote



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean has a lot of denial, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Soulless Sam Winchester, season six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It all started with an offhand comment over a couple of beers, the sort of scathing remark that Sam would never have said a year ago, back when he still had that whole “conscious” thing going on...."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fury and Feathers

It had all started with an offhand comment over a couple of beers, the sort of scathing remark that Sam would never have said a year ago, back when he still had that whole “conscious” thing going on. 

Dean had been bitching about the steady radio silence that Castiel had been maintaining for the past few weeks, despite Dean’s demands that he march his ass down there and help them figure out a way to slap Sam’s soul back into his body. Sam just snorted and took another swig of his drink, obviously unimpressed by Dean’s complaints.

“Please. You know he’d be here in a heartbeat if he could, he’s so pathetically in love with you.”

It certainly wasn’t the first time that Sam had made a mocking remark concerning Dean’s and Castiel’s “more profound bond” (Dean still rolled his eyes when remembering the angel’s rather embarrassing choice of phrasing there) but somehow, this was different. This wasn’t just Sam changing Castiel’s ringtone on Dean’s phone to “Earth Angel”, or the dozen other juvenile pranks that Sam seemed to find such glee in. No, this was a direct, blatant statement, without any air of jest. It set Dean back for a second, made him blink in surprise, before brushing it off, changing the subject and returning to his beer.

Still, despite his best effort, despite his years of experience at pushing away unwanted emotions, it gnawed at him for days. No matter how many miles he drove, no matter how loud the stereo was or how many drinks he slammed at each hotel bar it was always on the edge of his thoughts, a persistent little voice that whispered into his ear and wove heated images into his dreams. He even tried to clear his mind by picking up girls, but that came to a screeching, unsettling stop once he realized that he was only hitting on dark haired girls with blue eyes and quiet smiles.

It finally reached a boiling point one drizzly gray evening in Oregon. Sam was out doing who the hell knew what and Dean was cozied up to a bottle of Jack’s in the dingy motel room, flipping through the channels and getting drunker and more pissed off by the minute. It didn’t even make sense—Cas was a goddamn freaking angel, he wasn’t about to fall head over heels for some lowly human. And even if he had, was he really so much of a coward that he wouldn’t even say it to Dean’s face, even though it was apparently obvious to everyone else?

Dean suddenly realized that he was speaking out loud, that at some point his internal ranting had turned into furious prayer. He considered for a moment whether he should just shut up, but his liquid courage got the better of him and he raised his voice another octave.

 “…and just who the hell do you think you are, laying this on me now, like I don’t have enough on my mind? And now you’re not even going to show up to answer one fucking question, are you Cas, you spineless son of a bitch. You—“

There was a soft fluttering sound and suddenly Castiel was there, looking infuriatingly placid, with his hair mussed and his tie crooked.

“What is your question, Dean?” he asked quietly.

The sight of him made Dean’s head spin with a lot of emotions that he really didn’t want to address. Instead, he focused all his frustration and confusion until the question tore out of him, blunt and intense.

“Cas, are you in love with me?”

Castiel looked at him with an expression that was so open, so completely without guile that it filled Dean with shame. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that, as though he was some priceless work of art instead of the worn-out wreck he knew himself to be. And yet, here was an angel of the Lord, gazing at him like he was some sort of fucking treasure and it made Dean ache in places that he didn’t even know he had, to be standing here so drunk and angry while Cas practically shone with innocence and adoration.

 “Of course,” Castiel said, with a tone that suggested it was the most obvious answer in the world and that Dean was a fool to even have to ask it.

The words were out of Dean’s mouth before he even had time to process.

“Shit.  _Shit._  What the  _fuck_ , Cas, goddamn it.”

Castiel didn’t reply. He simply dropped his gaze to the floor, and then disappeared.

“Shit,” Dean sighed, letting his head fall into his hands.

He still hadn’t moved when Sam arrived ten minutes later, smelling like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.

“What’s going on?” he asked, slipping off his jacket and tossing it over a chair.

“Cas came by,” Dean mumbled. “Told me he was in love with me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

“And I said…’shit’.”

Sam let out a bark of laughter.

“Christ, and you call  _me_  soul-less.”

Dean threw back the comforter on his bed and crawled in, not even bothering to remove his jeans.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

***

He prayed until he was blue in the face. Every night, when Sam slunk off to find more pleasurable company, Dean dropped to his knees and talked to Castiel, an endless stream of words that probably didn’t even make much sense, just mangled pleas that Cas come back, just for a minute, a second, to let Dean explain. His supplications tended to waver between frustration and fury and usually ended with him screaming into the empty night before giving up and collapsing into bed. There was never any response, and the implications of that weighed on him, a horrible pressure.

This went on for the better part of a week. Sam bore through with moderate patience until one particularly moody night, when he finally kicked Dean out of the motel with strict instructions not to return until he’d stopped mooning.

Dean had wandered around town for nearly an hour before ending up on a bench outside an ornate church, a little after midnight. He’d already emptied the contents of his flask, finding that it did little to relieve him from the chill night air that nipped at him even through his jacket, and now sat crouched over, murmuring into his hands, weary and defeated.

“I’m sure you’re sick of hearing me apologize by now but…I’m not sure what else to do. Please, Cas…I’m not angry anymore, I swear. Just…this is killing me, okay? You have to give me another chance, you just caught me a little off guard before.”

He sighed.

“Please. I already lived a whole year without having you around, and it was a drag. I don’t want it to happen again.”

It was a fact that he’d never admitted to anyone before, one that he’d barely even admitted to himself. He’d missed Cas during those months with Lisa, missed his solid presence, his awkward social habits, even his stick-up-the-ass sense of humor, the one that was so easy to miss if you didn’t pay attention. He’d been too stubborn, too determined to live a life free of all monsters and angels to do anything at the time other than steadfastly ignore it.

“Look, this is all really confusing for me, okay?” he continued. “But I swear I’m trying. I mean, it’s just you and me, right? Nothing to get freaked out about, just you and me. We make a pretty kick-ass team, you know. Maybe this isn’t that different…aw hell, I don’t know Cas, just please stop ignoring me. Please.”

A whisper of feathers filled his ears and Dean knew without looking that Castiel had alighted on the bench next to him and when Cas spoke, it was clear that he was concentrating on keeping his voice neutral, unreadable.

“I do not have much time, Dean. I must—“

Dean kissed him. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing but now here he was, one hand grasping Castiel’s lapel, the other tangled in his hair, kissing him as though his life depended on it, just as his life and his soul had once before depended on Castiel’s resurrecting touch. It was unlike anything Dean had ever experienced before, and not just because he was kissing a  _dude_ , for Christ’s sake, although that was definitely going to take some getting used to.

This was soft and sweet and, even though Dean felt like a sappy idiot even thinking it, _pure_. He couldn’t come up with anything to compare it to, although he thought perhaps drinking a cool glass of water after a long, hot run sounded reasonably close.

Castiel was obviously startled at first, but after a moment he seemed to finally sink into it, resting one hand lightly on Dean’s knee, sliding the other around his back. He was clearly inexperienced, but radiated such intensity and passion that Dean barely noticed his lack of technical skill, and could only marvel that this bright, breathtaking creature had chosen him, of all people.

Dean didn’t know how long they lingered there, oblivious to the night around them, and when they eventually drew apart, for a split second Dean could have sworn that Castiel was literally glowing.

They studied each other in silence for a few moments, before Castiel spoke up, his voice quiet, gentle.

“You know that I still must return to heaven, as much as I would prefer-“ his voice faltered “-prefer to stay here. With you.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Dean said softly. He slid his hand into Castiel’s.

“I just didn’t want you to think…to think that I didn’t…well, you know,” he finished, feeling a flush of heat rising up from under his collar.

Castiel smiled.

“Yes, I know,” he said, giving Dean’s fingers a slight squeeze. Dean cleared his throat, unsure of what exactly the proper protocol was for this sort of situation.

“So, just…don’t be gone so long this time, okay?” he said, and hoped that his voice would be enough to convey all the emotions that he hadn’t quite figured out how to into words just yet. “At least let me take you out for some beers soon, okay?”

Castiel’s eyes glittered with something between amusement and delight.

“Dean Winchester, are you asking me out on a date?”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh, both at the giddy sensation that was growing in his chest and at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am,” he said. “Is that okay with you?”

Castiel didn’t speak, merely leaned over and pressed his lips lightly against Dean’s before vanishing.

Dean smiled and shook his head.

“I’m going back to hell for this, aren’t I?” he said, to no one in particular.

He rose, stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking. He’d only taken a few steps when a sudden breeze, unnaturally warm for this time of year, ruffled the leaves on the sidewalk, sending them dancing and dipping around his feet. Something brushed against his neck—he reached up and plucked it from his collar.

It was a feather, as long as his forearm. Various dark colors shimmered and swirled around its length, catching the light of the nearby streetlamp. The colors didn’t extend to the edges of the feather, however, which were blackened and charred, as though it had withstood some terrible heat and emerged, perhaps not entirely unscathed, but still whole.

Dean understood what this small offering represented—a reminder of previous victories, and perhaps something else entirely. Something like…a promise.

He grinned and slid the feather into his jacket, already devising a plan of how to transfer it to his duffel bag without Sam noticing. He would, of course, tell Sam…some day. Eventually. Preferably after they’d retrieved that wayward soul of his. For now, however, Dean treasured the secret, tucked away just like the feather.

He resumed his steps, finding that now, the brisk night air had no effect on him. He stayed warm the rest of the way home.

 


End file.
